


The promise

by fandomnumbergenerator



Series: Assorted femslash [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, F/F, Femslash, Major Character Undeath, Vampire!Irene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 23:22:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4240563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomnumbergenerator/pseuds/fandomnumbergenerator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by Sheridan Le Fanu's Carmilla and Nina Auerbach's Our Vampires, Ourselves.</p><p>And the fact that Irene is obviously a vampire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The promise

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my lovely beta [ARedRedRose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ARedRedRose/).

The dreams started the night she saw the cat on her doorstep. 

It was late, and Molly was exhausted from a double shift. Just trying to get her stupid sticky deadbolt open. But she couldn't ignore the very strange cat. She was black and larger than any female cat Molly had ever seen, with the blue grey eyes of a Siamese. No tags, but she looked sleek and well taken care of. And she twined around Molly’s legs, and actually licked her ankles. Molly did not have the energy to deal with it. She promised herself if she saw the cat again, she would try to track down the owner. When she finally got the door open, Toby was crouched on the highest shelf of the bookcase, hissing at her. Which was also strange. Molly put out extra food, and refilled the catnip toys and fell into bed, hoped things would be back to normal in the morning.

But her sleep was full of restless dreams. There was a beautiful woman with dark hair and pale skin and blue grey eyes. Glamorous in the way her mother had been glamorous, before the cancer started consuming her. Sometimes the woman was Molly’s mother, holding her close and rocking her and telling her everything was going to be OK. And sometimes the woman was seducing her. They were naked and intertwined. The woman biting her with her sharp cat’s teeth and licking her with her rough cat’s tongue. Her neck, her nipples, her clit. And Molly would jolt awake, her cunt still pulsing from the dream orgasm.

And then Molly actually saw The Woman in the Starbucks across the street. Well, obviously not. Since the dream woman was just some kind of Freudian telegram from her subconscious telling her she needed to get laid more. But a woman who looked so much like The Woman from her dreams, that Molly dropped her latte in surprise, splashing it on the woman’s white silk slacks. Which was exactly the kind of thing that only Molly would do.

Molly could feel herself blush furiously, and hear herself stuttering out her apologies, watch herself crouched on the floor pawing at the woman’s legs with a pile of wet napkins. And there was nothing she could do to make herself do it any differently.

The woman reached down and took her hand. “Stop. Get up. My dry cleaner is a miracle worker. It will be fine.” Molly looked up and the woman was smiling down at her, full of understanding and a little bit of humor. Molly stood up and brushed herself off, now self-conscious about her loud sweater and her messy hair. The woman was looking her up and down. “This may sound odd, but, could I borrow some jeans? I just need something to wear home.”

So they walked across the street to Molly’s flat. Molly introduced herself, and so did the woman, Irene, who managed to look amazing even with damp brown latte stains all over her slacks. Molly fiddled with her locks and let them in, looking around and knowing how sad everything must look to a glamorous stranger. She rummaged through her drawer for her one pair of fashionable jeans. Irene, her silk pants already off, grabbed the jeans and wriggled into them before Molly had a chance to turn away. Then she unlocked her phone and handed it to Molly. “Type in your number. So I can get your jeans back to you.” A little dazed, Molly complied. And then Irene was gone.

Molly had a lot of problems focusing that week. At work, she thought about Irene’s red lipstick, her pale thighs and the flash of ivory satin underwear that Molly had seen without intending to. First she tried to resist thinking about her when she masturbated, but the dreams were overwhelming. Irene’s shiny red mouth kissing, licking, biting, sucking. She gave in. She bought herself expensive red lipstick and nail polish so she could imagine it was Irene’s fingers on her nipples, on her clit, inside her.

And then Irene texted her, and Molly seriously considered hiding forever. But when Irene came by, everything seemed easy. She asked about her job, about working at a morgue, about her cat, about the framed picture of her mother. And suddenly Molly felt like she was about to cry, except that Irene gave her a little hug, and somehow she felt a million times better.

Irene had brought a bottle of wine. A very old bottle of French wine that must have been very expensive. But Irene just said it had been a gift from an admirer a long time ago, and she wasn’t sure it was even good anymore. Actually it was delicious. It was pale red and smelled like roses and the flavor kept changing, so they kept having to taste it again, until they had finished the bottle, and Molly felt like everything was starting to spin. Toby had been hiding on the bookshelf again, puffing himself up and looking furious, and suddenly it seemed to Molly that he was being very rude to her guest, and that she needed to make apologies for him, but Irene gave a knowing smile, and said, “It’s OK; I know what boys like,” and she reached up and rubbed Toby’s cheekbones, and Toby let her keep going and then he jumped down and presented himself on the sofa for further petting, until he was a purring tabby puddle, and Molly started laughing and calling him a slag.

And then Irene started rubbing Molly’s cheekbones, and Molly played along, rubbing her face against Irene’s hand and trying to purr except she kept giggling, and then Irene leaned in and kissed her neck, and was actually straddling her and pulling down her tank top and kissing her breast, then sucking a love bite, then biting her nipple. Too hard, but when Molly resisted the urge to pull away, it sent a jolt of pleasure to her groin, and she was making breathy little whimpering noises, which normally she never did.

Irene stood up and took her hand and led her to the bedroom, so poised that it could have been her own bedroom. But when they got inside, Molly pulled her back so they could kiss against the door.

Irene, suddenly serious, pulled away. “Will you promise me something? That if I ever show up in your morgue, you won’t cut into my body?”

Molly was startled by the weirdness of the question, but at that moment would have agreed to anything, so she whispered, “Yes.”

And then Irene started undressing her. Pulling off her shirt, pulling down her jeans and her underwear. Irene took off her own jeans, and unbuttoned her crisp white shirt, her red bra and underwear stark against her creamy skin. She leaned in a kissed Molly again, rubbing the skin and satin against her. Molly reached around Irene to unhook her bra, carefully took it off, watching as her lovely breasts fell into their natural shape, just asking for her hand, and her mouth.

Then Irene pushed them back towards the bed, Molly first. Molly scooted back on the bed, and Irene took off her underwear, revealing waxed skin, which could have looked crass, but to Molly, made her look even more like a classic marble.

Molly grabbed her and pulled her onto the bed next to her. Kissed her, kissed down her neck, cupped Irene’s breast and took teasing licks at the nipple, while her other hand cupped Irene’s pubis, two fingers resting against her labia. Against the austere chill of Irene’s body, Molly felt like she was burning up, too fleshy, too human, but Irene was urging her on, and she pushed the fingers in, then dragged the slick wetness back to her clit. Irene rocked into her fingers, and Molly made a couple more strokes, before the urge to taste overwhelmed her, and she shifted down between Irene’s legs. Irene, in all her glory, laid out before her, her labia shockingly pink against her white skin. The first taste was electric, and Molly slid her fingers in. Irene arched up into her, responding to every touch, every lick, every curl and press of her fingers. Her breaths turned to panting moans, eliciting a sympathetic pulse in Molly’s cunt. Irene was riding her fingers, tightening around them, and shaking a little, as her moans got higher and higher, before crashing down into a panting laugh.

Irene pulled her up for a sloppy kiss, then rolled them over and pushed her thigh between Molly’s legs.

She licked up her own palm and then sucked two fingers into her mouth, giving Molly a little smirk. She rubbed one thumb slowly on Molly’s clit, while her spit-slick finger tips stroked her ass. Then she pushed in one finger, and slid that thumb into her vagina. Molly felt pinned down by sensory overload -- her clit trapped between the knuckle of one thumb and the pad of the other, and her perineum caught between finger and thumb. She couldn’t make sense of the sensations. And then Irene leaned down to lick her clit, and Molly surrendered completely, making whimpering animal noises that she was too lost to be embarrassed by, turned herself over to Irene’s fingers and mouth, driving her towards a shattering orgasm.

Afterwards, Irene kissed Molly on the forehead. “Sleep now.”

Molly woke up alone, and feeling like shit. Exhausted, nauseous, dizzy, with the hallucinatory spangle of a migraine threatening. There was a bottle of V8, 2 paracetemol and a note on her bedside table.

“Sorry I couldn’t spend the morning with you, but I have to get home. My day is a disaster. I left my phone somewhere, so I’m using Kate’s temporarily. Call me. Love, Irene”

For the first time in her life, Molly called in to work hung over. She hadn’t had that much to drink, had she? And it didn’t really feel like a hangover. More like some terrible flu. Her body felt weird; her skin felt wrong. Only the thought of Irene made her feel any better, and her fingers kept going to the still-red love bites on her breast. Thinking about last night made her flush with embarrassment and desire. And she deeply regretted having agreed to go to John’s party. She sent Irene a text (on Kate’s phone, so she had to keep it chaste). “Irene I’m going to a friend’s party tonight Care to be my +1?” and sent it before she had a chance to reconsider.

The reply came quickly, “My evening’s booked up Maybe we can meet up after” And Molly’s mood brightened.

When the December sun finally started slipping away, the giant weight that had been crushing Molly all day disappeared. She was excited, loopy and a little manic. She had a fun glittery dress at the back of her closet, bought for a date with Jim, back when that had seemed like a good idea. But the thought of wearing it for Irene was very appealing. It was too bad she couldn’t show up at John’s place with Irene on her arm, but she could at least wear the dress. And her new red lipstick.

But then Irene texted her, and her heart sank.

“I have come to the attention of some very powerful men”

“I don’t know when I’ll be able to see you again”

“And remember you promise”

Molly was scared for Irene, and selfishly disappointed. She tried not to cry, and when she did, she tried not to blot her makeup. The whole fantasy of the dress and the makeup was disintegrating. She wasn’t the person who could wear these things. She put on a bra under the dress so it wouldn’t show so much cleavage (and risk showing the love bites). And wiped off the red lipstick and put on something pinker.

She was at the party when work called. She owed them a shift; they needed her tonight. There had been a murder, and everything needed to be done fast.

It was Irene. Dead. Her beautiful face smashed. Her beautiful life drained away.

And then Sherlock was there with some government man in an expensive suit. She pulled back the sheet, and Sherlock looked at Irene, at what had been Irene.

Molly looked between Sherlock and the government man. And a terrible thought hit her, about very powerful men.

“How did Sherlock recognize her from... not her face?”

But they didn’t notice. Molly was going to cry, but nobody noticed. As soon as everyone was gone, she called Kate’s number, hoping somebody would pick up. She had promised not to cut into the body, into Irene, and maybe the next of kin could stop the autopsy.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your sister is...” Molly had to take a couple deep breaths before she could push the words through her constricted throat. “She’s dead.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes” Kate was beautiful and perfectly put together, just like Irene had been. She looked at the body. Laid one kiss on what was left of Irene’s face, and pulled Molly away. Molly was dizzy and nauseous and not sure where she was being taken. But when they arrived, she let herself be taken to a room with a large bed. Let Kate take off her shoes and lay her down. Kiss her on the forehead, and when Kate said, “Sleep now,” she did.

She dreamt of Irene. Holding her. Rocking her. Kissing her. She dreamt of the black cat curled up on the foot of the bed, watching her while she was dreaming. She tossed and turned in a troubled, fevered sleep.

When she woke up the light was too bright. Every sound too loud. Her body felt strange and electric. In her mind, she heard Irene say, “I am with you always.”

Kate opened the door, and said, “Irene, it is time to get ready for the next stage.”


End file.
